


The Gardener's Son

by punto_y_coma



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: All while these idiots deny they have feelings for each other, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dream Sex, F/M, Have you heard about make-up sex?, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, Well it's like that except it's glad-a-firing-squad-didn't-kill-us sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19723264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punto_y_coma/pseuds/punto_y_coma
Summary: "I would bow every time you passed by, waiting for the day you finally notice me...""Oh! Are you in love with me in this?""Of course!" he rolled his eyes without malice. "Everyone is in love with you; the kitchen boy, the chauffeur... But I'm the only one that gives you bouquets of wild flowers every other day."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're under 18 and you read this, your ass will fall off. I've put an ancient mayan spell on this. You've been warned.

The lights of the dance club were warm but looked far away, faded by the clouds of smoke and the fuzziness of alcohol. They had stopped in Vienna to change trains, Dmitry insisted they went out and stretched their legs (he was getting cabin fever, apparently).

Anya fiddled with her glass, it was beer, cheap beer at that, golden and good for celebrating the many miles that separated them from Russia and from the firing squad. She could still feel the beat of her heart, stuck in her throat, threatening to choke her, if she thought about it too much. Dmitry took a swig of his own beer and smiled softly at her, relaxed for the first time in God knows how long. He cocked his head when she kept staring, so she turned her attention quickly to the dancefloor. Vlad had been dragged there by a loud, plump woman and now they were gliding with surprising ease, dancing a quick swing.

"At least one of us is having fun..." Dmitry said with a chuckle. The remark only made the lack of conversation more apparent, the fact that they were avoiding each other's gazes.

"At the hospital, I used to play a game," Anya said, just to break the silence. She moved closer to Dmitry so that he could listen. "I would imagine what my life would look like if a certain event had happened differently," she explained.

"Like what?"

"Maybe if my shift was earlier, I would tend to the wounds of a farmer. Maybe that farmer knew my family and me. Maybe he could bring us together..." Dmitry gave her a sympathetic smile, neither of them were strangers to misery. "It was a call for help, clearly," she scoffed, looking more than a little bit sad, "but it passed the time."

"We all do what we must to survive," he felt the impulse to reach out and hold her hand, maybe brush his knuckles down her spine reassuringly, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He had touched her before, brushed her fingers, bumped her knee, held her hand, but it felt too intimate now, somehow.

"The thing is," she shook her head as if to get rid of some stubborn notion. "I keep thinking that if I am who you say I am... If none of that- If they, my family, were still alive... I wouldn't have met you."

"You don't know that," Dmitry argued for the sake of arguing but, somewhere inside him, he knew she was right. "What if I got married to an heiress, got set for life, won a title?"

Anya cackled gleefully. "You? Living the high society life? A title?"

"What? You don't think I'm good enough?" he lashed out, offended.

"No! What I mean is... Would you give up your freedom, your being able to go wherever and speak your mind all the time? Just for money? I don't see it, that's all."

"Shit, you're right!" he pursed his lips, a little upset that she had been able to read him so easily. "Let me think of something."

"Maybe a footman at the palace?"

"My posture is awful," he waved his hand, trying to convey an 'as you very well know'.

"Stable boy?" Anya smiled hopefully. "I loved horses, right? We could have been good friends."

"I'm terrified of horses," Dmitry confessed, looking boyish and soft all of a sudden. "Gardener, maybe?"

"I feel like gardeners have to be sort of dignified and old," Anya chuckled. "Maybe the gardener's son? We would have definitely crossed paths that way. Whenever I went out riding you would be around."

Dmitry grinned. "I like that," he admitted. "I would bow every time you passed by, waiting for the day you finally notice me..."

"Oh! Are you in love with me in this?"

"Of course!" he rolled his eyes without malice. "Everyone is in love with you: the kitchen boy, the chauffeur... But I'm the only one that gives you bouquets of wild flowers every other day."

"That's sweet," she admitted.

"I know," his cocky reply made her chuckle again. "That's why you're in love with me."

"It only takes some wild flowers? What kind of girl do you think I am? I am the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova," Anya exclaimed in mock indignation.

"No, of course there's more," Dmitry made that face that indicated he was coming up with a plan on the fly. "I help you get away from boring balls. We take long walks in the gardens, in secret, of course; we're star crossed lovers, obviously."

"Obviously," she echoed, smiling fondly.

"We meet at night and we talk for hours. You try to teach me how to dance and we practice under the moonlight," Dmitry's eyes were bright and Anya's fingers were fiddling with the rim of her glass.

"Were you my first kiss?" she asked, feeling her mouth suddenly going dry.

"I guess you would know better than me," he replied, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat. "Though, I don't remember exactly..."

"It was June, we were lying on the grass on a sunny day under the shadow of some trees. We were talking about nonsense and you reached out with your hand, cupped my face gently and scooted to where I was, close enough that I could count your eyelashes... And then I kissed you."

"You kissed me?"

"Obviously. You were afraid still but I always knew," Anya raised her chin in that poised way that made her look so regal. Dmitry stared and the silence stretched between them, delicate, making their hearts race as they realized what had actually been said, reading between the lines...

"Do you want to dance?" Dmitry asked.

The sudden question made Anya jump in her seat. "Sure," she extended her hand towards Dmitry, palm down. He shook his head and turned her hand to place a cigarette in her grasp.

"Not me," he chuckled. "I can barely waltz, I'm the gardener's son, remember? No. You choose a guy," he gestured at the room, "and then you ask him for a lighter."

"Just like that?" Anya furrowed her brow.

"Just like that," he smiled confidently. "You're a pretty girl, a princess," he shrugged.

Anya opened her mouth, about to deny it but instead just looked at Dmitry, dazed for a minute. He was drunk, clearly, but something was happening to him tonight, something she found sweet. However dangerous the game was, she liked playing it with him.

"Okay," she accepted the cigarette and downed her glass of beer. She stood up and approached a tall, blond man. Dmitry watched her go and felt something fiery and heavy settle in his stomach. The man lit her cigarette and talked to her, smiling wide; from where Dmitry was sitting he looked dangerous, hungry like a shark... And then Anya turned back to their table, sat across from him, a knowing smirk on her lips.

"What happened?" not that Dmitry wasn't thankful that she was back but he was confused.

"I did as you said, I asked for a lighter. That nice man over there," she gestured at the blond man, "helped me and then he asked me to dance with him," her voice was low and if Dmitry didn't know better he would say she was flirting. The sight of her in the dimly lit room, her mouth curving around the cigarette...

He cleared his throat. "And?"

"I told him I came with someone else," she exhaled with the side of her mouth, away from his face. "I'm sure they'll play something slow for us soon."

Dmitry stared at her, the curve of her neck, the flick of her wrist, the playful glint of her eyes... He liked it. Almost everything leading up to this moment had been serious, the stakes were high, their lives had been on the line, and their rests were few and far between. Tonight felt like time borrowed from someone else's life, someone who wasn't running for their life, someone who had a chance at happiness. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was Anya's game, but, with much more confidence than he felt, he moved his hand towards hers. His index brushed over her knuckles, slowly. And so, far from the crowd, they were having a dance of their own; fingertips running along veins over the table, knees touching under it.

~

Anya, Dmitry and Vlad left the dance club before any slow songs were actually played, just in time to catch their train to Paris. Dmitry walked her to her compartment, right next to his, said goodnight with coy looks and settled in their cots, only a thin wall between them.

~

There was a braid around her head, keeping her hair out of her face, the rest left loose, floating around her face in the afternoon breeze. She kept her eyes closed, sitting in the sun. The grass crunched under his feet, announcing his arrival; she knew the sound of his steps by now and waited. He bent down to kiss her cheek and sit next to her. Spring was a luxurious time for them; it gave them warm nights and soft grass to lie on. It also gave them fresh flowers.

"I've got a present," he whispered. "Keep your eyes closed," he took her hands and turned the palms up so that she could hold it.

She opened her eyes to a flower crown: pink, white and violet. She smiled.

"I love it, Dima!" they were so close she barely had to move to kiss his lips. "Thank you."

"May I?"

"Of course," she stood still, chin up, as he placed the crown over her braided hair. She had never looked quite so lovely. "I like it better than my tiara," she declared.

"It's lighter," he quipped.

"Prettier!" she corrected him, her hand resting over his thigh.

"Prettier," he conceded.

They kissed slowly, another luxury of the spring. Her parents thought she was riding, his dad thought he was working. His hands stayed on her face and her waist, afraid to go any further. She grew impatient and, accustomed as she was to taking what she wanted, she moved her hand up his thigh.

He hissed. "Your Highness," he reprimanded, grabbing her fingers.

"You want to," she had felt him. "You have my permission," she said lightly and she went on kissing him, running her fingers through his soft hair with one hand and guiding him to grab her hip with the other. He had been holding back for so long, he was a little too enthusiastic when he took her by the waist and placed her under him.

"Easy, lover boy," she giggled, reaching to caress his face.

"Sorry," he kissed her palm, "I'll be careful, I promise."

She smiled, marveling at how right it felt, him hovering above her, his hair tickling her face, the weight of his body keeping her grounded. He nudged her legs open with his knees, getting closer still. Her white dress was already showing green stains from rubbing against the grass but she didn't seem to mind. Her hands grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and dragged his suspenders down. He hummed into her mouth.

"God, you're so beautiful," he whispered against her cheek, leaving kisses on her neck and jaw, whatever little skin her dress showed. She was busy unbuttoning his shirt, tugging it out of his pants, running eager fingers on his back and stomach.

"That tickles," he complained, moving down her body, out of her reach.

She got up on her elbows, an indignant look on her face. "What are you doing down there?"

"Patience," he held her foot, ghosted his fingers over her stockings, tugged at her ribbon garters... She vibrated with excitement under his touch. With a slow pull, he took her long, cotton undergarments out of her legs. "May I kiss you?" he arched an eyebrow, his left hand grabbing her upper thigh under the white dress.

"Yes..." she gasped.

He kissed the bend of her knee, working his way up, eager and a bit less controlled. When he grazed the inside of her thigh with his teeth, she arched her back so suddenly that he had to use both hands to hold her hips in place. Even the exhale of his breath made her squirm. He ran his tongue over her, agonizingly slow...

"Dima..." she called, her fingers pulling at his hair, the most delicious feeling building between her legs. "Don't stop," she pleaded, her entire body a curve. "Oh!" she moaned and he savored that beautiful sound, coming from the back of her throat, needy and wild. It was a different kind of pleasure to be there, between her legs, seeing her quivering with desire, ondulating her body, making her hips buck. "Please!" his tongue, his fingers, his ragged breath...

She came, a white heat blinding her for a moment, leaving her shaking, like a leave of grass in the wind, her neck exposed and her mouth gaping for air. When her eyes fluttered open again, Dmitry was emerging from under her dress, his hair ruffled and a satisfied grin on his lips. How proud he was to see her smiling and satisfied, her hair a mess of curls that shone golden in the sun. She tried to think of something smart to say, she loved to bicker with him, but she couldn't, instead she dragged him by the collar to where she was. He smelled of grass and wild flowers and salt, his lips tasted like _her_.

She curled under, unstoppable like waves in the sea, crashing right back into him. "I want you, all of you," she sighed, reaching under his pants to hold him. He moaned into her mouth, a shiver running through him before he sunk into her. "Ah! I love you," she whispered and, somewhere in the back of his mind, Dmitry knew it wasn't the first time she had said it. She held to his shoulders with a ferocity that was unladylike and arousing. She caged him with her legs and he set a pace that bordered on frantic.

"I love you," he panted. "I love you so much."

~

Dmitry woke up with a start in his cot. His breath was ragged, his undershirt was soaked through, and he was hard.

"Shit!" he cursed under his breath. Of all the places he could have had a sex dream, locked up in a train compartment, right beside Anya! This was far from ideal. He took some comfort in the fact that it wasn't Anya in his dream, not really, it was their make-believe version of Anastasia; and it wasn't him, either. Vlad would tell him to stop lying to himself but Vlad wasn't there. Thankfully.

His body was asking, no, demanding that he touched himself. He closed his hands in fists by his sides, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge what he did or did not feel for Anya, doing his best to ignore the beating ache under his stomach. It was one thing to dream about her and another to actively fantasize about her. He took his sweaty shirt off, threw it on the floor and tried to go back to sleep.

A long while later, something under the train banged loudly, waking him up again. He wasn't startled by the bang but by the series of screams that sounded from the compartment beside his. He got up quickly.

"Anya! Anya!" the door was unlocked so he barged in. She was clawing at the air, no one else was inside the tiny compartment. He kneeled by her side and grabbed her wrists, trying to wake her. "It's okay, I'm here."

"Dmitry!" she finally recognized him and relaxed back in her cot, her whole body was shaking and her face was wet with sweat and tears. "Stay with me, please," she asked quietly.

"I'm not going anywhere," he assured her, though there was very little space. Anya moved toward the wall that divided their compartments, leaving half of the already tiny cot empty for him. He lied down as far from her as possible and yet he could still see the beads of sweat on her forehead. "What happened?"

"Just nightmares," she shook her head, embarrassed. "Every damn night. I don't think I even remember what happens in them... I just wake up screaming and terrified," her voice was hoarse. Dmitry took her hand in his. "Do you remember your dreams?"

"I do," he replied.

"Tell me about your dreams," she asked in a whisper.

"Uh, I don't know," Dmitry was starting to realize this was a bad idea. He had completely forgotten that Anya wore one of his old shirts to bed, and seeing her made the roof of his mouth go dry.

"Please, Dmitry. It helps," Anya explained, "talking. It helps me."

"Okay, uh... I dreamt about us, funnily enough," he admitted. "But we weren't- It was Princess Anya and Dmitry the-son-of-the gardener, remember?" she nodded. "Uh, and I guess we were just talking. I gave you a crown made out of flowers and you loved it," Anya smiled softly, running her thumb over his knuckles. Her hair fell freely around her face, down to her waist, and he had the impulse to run his fingers down the length of it. "I don't remember much else, sorry," he lied.

"Oh," Anya sounded disappointed. "It's okay," when she looked up, Dmitry was staring and his eyes were dark. "Dmitry... Why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

"I- Uh-"

"What's wrong?" she insisted.

"We were- We were kissing, in the dream," he cleared his throat. Anya's hand had moved to caress his hair, his breath tickling her lips. There was but a second of hesitation, a moment while they stared at each other's mouths, wanting... They met in the middle in a desperate kiss, both needing to be reminded that they were alive and someone loved them. She felt something hard against her thigh; it upset the already pulsating heat in her belly.

"Hold me," she pleaded and she almost sounded as desperate as he had been when he had woken up alone. He unbuttoned her shirt, eager to touch more of her, to see her completely. His hands explored at length, following the curve of her waist, the valley between her breasts, the soft skin of her stomach. She kissed him hard. "What happened next? In the dream," Anya asked against his mouth.

"I _kissed you_ ," he said and punctuated the sentence by reaching between her legs, cupping her. "Jesus! The sounds you made, Anya!"

She moaned softly between kisses, his long fingers curling inside her. "Like that?"

"Yes," Dmitry gulped, unsure how long he could last, hearing her like that and seeing her like that, her hips bucking to meet his hand. Anya must have realized because moments later she reached between them, to guide him inside her. Just as he sunk in her, there it was: that needy, throaty sound that made Dmitry shiver all over.

Her thigh was flung over his hip and her hands tugged at his hips, getting him as close as she could. They kept on kissing, rocking back and forth, echoing the rattle of the train. His middle finger found its way to where they were joined together, moving idly until Anya tightened around him, cursing in French and scratching at his back. He was right with her, the bruising hold he had on her hips getting tighter still, a lewd groan escaping his lips followed by her name.

They remained still, in silence for a while, Dmitry's arm around her waist and their foreheads touching.

Anya rubbed her knuckles up and down his side. "In the dream, what happened after all that?"

"I said I loved you," he whispered.

"I wish I had that kind of dreams, for a change," they both chuckled and Anya kissed his collarbone, hiding her face as she said: "I love you too, Dima," she looked up. "I do. Even tomorrow," she added and he knew what she meant. All this had been borrowed time and as soon as they got to Paris it would be... Different.

He kissed her knuckles. "Even tomorrow," he echoed softly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I had a dream about you," she confessed.
> 
> Dmitry straightened his back slightly, his index finger tickling her wrist. "Was it a good dream?"
> 
> "Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its-equality-arianagrande.gif

Anya was always tired; it was simply the way things were. While she had been in Russia, she couldn't afford to rest and be idle. It was after they crossed the Russian border, in between their constant traveling, that she found herself napping: at the train station, on the bus, in the car of some kind soul that had offered to take them to the closest town.

"Anya, wake up!" Dmitry shook her gently. "Jesus, are you getting no sleep at night?" he asked in a tone that was playful in an effort to hide concern. They hadn't slept together since the train from Vienna and, sometimes, his arms felt empty now that they weren't holding her slender frame.

"No, I am," she assured him with a soft smile, as she tried to fix her hair. "It's just... I don't get nightmares during the day," she rubbed her neck.

For whatever reason, maybe it was the warmer weather, or the noises of the day, or that she finally felt safe... She didn't want to overanalyze it and jinx it.

"Oh," Dmitry's expression softened. "Well, if you ever need a shoulder or a lap..." he let the offer float away and smiled when he saw Anya blush.

~

She was walking briskly to her bedroom, the hem of her dress and petticoat getting tangled with her boots. She had borrowed a sheet of sturdy paper from her father's study; she wanted to write to her Nana, let her know about everything that was happening. They were having a ball to celebrate Tatiana's engagement that night and the palace was abuzz with excitement and preparations. More than once she almost ran into a footman or a scullery maid going from the kitchens to the dining room and back.

When she got to the second floor, from afar, she saw Dmitry leaving her room, closing her door carefully. She sneaked up on him, walking lightly on the tips of her toes.

"Fancy seeing you here, handsome," she whispered, tickling his ribs and cackling when he jumped in shock.

"Shit! Don't do that!" he complained, working hard to keep a smirk off his face as he pressed her hands closer to him. "You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"Why were you sneaking into my room?" she kissed his cheek and let him go. Dmitry automatically put his hands behind his back, like he did whenever they were in public: head held down and a respectable distance between them. They both immediately missed the warmth of the other's skin.

"I was leaving some flowers for you," he rubbed his neck and started walking. She followed him, understanding it would be hard to explain why the gardener's son was near the princesses' quarters. "Heard there's a ball tonight and... Well, I just wanted you to think of me."

It was said in a soft, humble way, very unlike him, and it broke Anastasia's heart.

"You don't need to worry about that," she assured him, reaching out to graze his hand as they walked. "I think of you all the time, silly!"

"That's kind, Your Highness," he smiled but it felt hollow. "It's just- The girls in the kitchen talk; I heard there are many suitors lined up for you, that your dance card is as good as full already and-"

"You're jealous!" Anastasia gasped, as if the fact shocked her as she said it.

"You don't have to sound so thrilled about it!" he pouted.

"I'll admit it, it's exciting! But you don't need to be. Dima," she smiled wide and, after checking the hallway twice, she grabbed his hand, "it's just a dumb ball."

"I know," he kissed her hand. "I just wish things were different and I could be there with you. Dance with you."

"Come," she took his wrist and dragged him into the library. Once they were inside, she closed the door as quietly as she could, locked it and leaned on one of the bookshelves. Dmitry stood in front of her, his eyes questioning and dark. She took his hands and slowly intertwined their fingers. "We can dance together whenever you want, Dima, but I don't think that's what's worrying you," he looked down at their hands and squeezed gently. "Those men, at the ball, they will get the princess, with her perfect hair and her nice manners and her fake laugh but you get _me_. _The real me_. They will never know how I look when I'm in love," she moved her hands to cup his face and touch his cheeks, freshly shaven, soft. "And they will never see me giddy with mischief or wild with need," she kissed him, long, with the promise of more, should Dmitry want it, "that is only for you," she hummed against his lips.

"Highness," he whispered, wanting, needing, his hands ghosting over the curve of her hip. She grabbed handfuls of his shirt and dragged him down. She was on the tips of her toes and still felt like she couldn't get close enough.

It happened all at once, like the ice on a frozen river cracking first slowly and then furiously.

Dmitry's hands were suddenly on the bend of her knee. "Hold tight," he commanded, his voice low. A shiver ran down her spine but she obeyed, hooking her arms around his shoulders. Dmitry picked her up, her thighs framing his waist, and pinned her against the bookshelf. She gasped and then giggled, one hand caressing the hair on the back of his neck, the other pressing on the muscle of his broad shoulders. She hummed appreciatively and kissed him hard, the sense of urgency building once again between them as Dmitry's hands traveled up her petticoat. Anastasia helped him get rid of his suspenders, all while shifting in his hold impatiently, yearning for some friction, enjoying the thrill of being held by him, of feeling him hard against her thigh. He kissed her neck, groaning in her hair when he entered her.

Dmitry had always been a careful lover but in that moment it seemed that his jealousy had somehow sublimated into lust; wild, and a little angry... One hand was sinking fingertips into the pale flesh of her hip; the other cupped her head, kept it from hitting the shelf behind her, and with every forceful thrust he seemed to say: "You are mine."

She moaned, her feet suspended from the ground, her toes curling in pleasure. She bit on her lip to try to silence herself, a task that was getting increasingly hard as the heat in her belly extended to her arms and chest. "Kiss me," she demanded, tugging at Dmitry's hair a little harder than she intended. He offered her a raised eyebrow and slowed down his rhythm slightly, silently reminding her he didn't like to be bossed around, not when they were alone. "Please," she added after a thought.

He bent down to kiss her and swallowed her moans diligently, even as he drowned a few of his own...

"Oh, God," she mumbled, hands shaking and back arching.

"I've got you," he reassured, tightening his grip on her. "I've got you."

For a moment, with her eyes closed, it was only Dmitry and her, perfectly intertwined, his agitated breath and the warm feeling of being in his arms. Slowly, she came back to herself, to her senses; the slight discomfort of the bookshelf on her spine, his rhythm getting clumsy and desperate. Dmitry's lips left wet imprints on her skin, and then his mouth was on that bit of flesh that joined her shoulder with her neck, kissing over the fabric of her dress, biting on it to stop himself from groaning too loudly as he came.

"My love," he sighed.

~

"Dima."

It was little more than a whimper, mumbled incoherently in her sleep, but enough to wake her up. Anya opened her eyes to a tailor's fancy workshop, and it all slowly came back to her. She had accompanied Dmitry to get his tuxedo, a couple of final adjustments were needed and she dozed off on a velvety couch while she waited.

"Yeah?" he asked from behind the curtain of the changing room.

Anya bit her tongue so hard it almost bled. Having such dreams was nice until one got caught, she decided, her cheeks burning and her heart racing. Dmitry emerged from behind the curtain, his dress shirt unbuttoned, his hair disheveled and his suspenders down. Anya gulped. This wasn't doing anything to help the embarrassing sleekness she felt between her legs.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Hmm?" she put her most innocent and confused expression on.

"Didn't you call me?"

She shook her head, not trusting her voice, not yet, her lips a tense line.

"Weird," he scrunched his nose and then shrugged. "Will you help me with these?" he offered his wrists, still trapped with his brand new cufflinks.

Anya struggled a bit with them, turning them this way and the other, her fingers clumsy. When she finally managed it, Dmitry took one of her hands in his.

"You okay? You're shaking," he searched for her eyes.

"I'm fine," she gave him half a smile. "Must be all that coffee I had for breakfast," she chuckled half-heartedly. A small silence settled between them, heavy with the idea of mornings together helping each other get dressed; or worse, long, polite evenings at the opera that ended with them undressing and kissing and holding tight.

"Thanks," he kissed her hand and quickly let go, walking back to the changing room. "I'll be out in a minute," he said without looking back.

~

He walked her all the way to her room, like a proper gentleman (his words), talking animatedly about everything and nothing, guessing some unrest within her but not pointing it out.

"The ballet starts at eight, Vlad's meeting us there. I'll pick you up at seven, princess," he quipped, earning a soft smile from her.

"Thanks, Dmitry," she reached to kiss his cheek (maybe she had been aiming for the corner of his mouth all along, who could say) and closed the door.

The blue, beaded dress was hanging in her wardrobe, dazzling as the afternoon sunlight hit it. She was tangentially reminded of the changing seasons, the imminent arrival of spring, of pigeons fluffing their iridescent feathers at the Nevsky Prospekt.

She asked for tea, something soothing and floral to settle her mind. Her heart still raced at the thought of Dmitry. It made her nervous, to think that someone mattered to her that much... She sat on her ridiculously comfortable bed and sighed.

One knock to her door.

"It's open," she composed her slouch into something more ladylike, expecting to see a maid with the tea service.

"Anya."

Oh. Dmitry.

"I- I thought maybe you wanted to talk. Um- Are you- Are you nervous about tonight? Is that it?" he joined her on the edge of the bed, fidgeting, sitting a little too straight in his new Parisian suit. Anya shook her head and reached for his hand. "I'm terrible at this, can you tell?"

They both giggled like kids.

"Yeah. But it's sweet of you to ask," she bumped his shoulder. "It's been- Uh- It's been a lot," there was a mirror over the vanity, reflecting the image of the two of them in their fancy clothes, in her lavish hotel room. "I don't know who that is," Anya said, pointing at her reflection. A silence followed, with Dmitry biting the inside of his cheek and rubbing his thumb over her hand.

"Shit, I don't even know what to say," he admitted. "I'm sorry, love."

The endearment sent a shock through her spine, an unexpected reminder that, in a way, they had been here before: side by side, over the covers, holding hands. The night on the train felt dreamlike, fuzzy in her memory, but it had happened. She had kissed those lips that now curled into a reassuring smile. How peculiar.

They both started when a couple of knocks announced the arrival of the tea service. Dmitry stood up quickly, hurried to the opposite side of the room. The maid set everything up, served tea for Anya and offered Dmitry a cup, he rejected it curtly, and then she left.

"I forgot I had asked for tea," Anya said to fill the silence, the ring of the spoon against the porcelain cup was deafening.

Dmitry hummed in response, walking back to where she was. His brown eyes studied her, the curve of his eyebrows making him seem too clever for his own good. He paused, gently took her cup and saucer, placed them on the bedside table, and kneeled in front of her.

"Don't," Anya didn't know where this was going but she didn't like it; it was fun to play that she was the Grand Duchess while they were drunk but this felt far too serious.

"Just- Let me," he pleaded. "You said you don't recognize yourself," she nodded. "I know the word of a slimy conman is not worth much but," he took her hands in his, "you are still a beautiful, strong, annoyingly stubborn woman, Anya, like you always have been. Everything else is just smoke and mirrors."

"Do you mean it?"

"I do," he patted her hand and, like a magic trick, his seriousness gave place to a mischievous smile, Anya's favorite smile: "Lying to royalty is a heinous crime," she rolled her eyes but still smiled fondly. "Anything else I can do for you while I'm down here, Highness?"

It was said as a joke but Anya flinched, remembering her dream, her lips tickling like they had recently been kissed.

"Anya?"

She clutched his hands a little tighter. Her shapeless idea of happiness had changed before she noticed. Now, the mere thought of parting with Dmitry broke her heart. And she ached, feeling like she was betraying her old self. She wanted too much, she was risking her dream for this one uncertain thing. In the end, it was the sight of Dmitry, dazed and a little worried, that pushed her to break the silence.

"I had a dream about you," she confessed.

"I thought you didn't remember your nightmares," he replied.

"I said dream," she repeated. "Though, it wasn't really you," she bit her lip, "it was the gardener's son."

Dmitry straightened his back slightly, his index finger tickling her wrist. "Was it a good dream?"

"Yes," she could feel her heart thumping inside her chest and was pretty sure that she was blushing. It wasn't embarrassment, not entirely, it was something along the lines of expectation: If he felt the same way, if it was more than just a dumb mistake, if it meant more than just fucking, then surely...

"You do know that princesses don't marry the help, right? That was literally the reason why this whole thing came up. Because only in our convoluted imaginations we would have met, let alone fall in love!" he talked quicker as he went, getting agitated.

"I know," she replied, confused as to why he was so outraged.

"I didn't say anything because I- Of course I-" he struggled and ran his fingers through his hair in desperation. "It never was a question of whether I wanted you or not," he said finally, "of course I do. But I have enough dreams above my station as it is. I have no expectations, I honestly don't."

"Well, _you could!_ " her eyebrows rose along with her voice. How she wanted to grab the lapels of his suit and force him up; how was he still kneeling?! _'Fight for me, you idiot!'_ she wanted to scream... And yet not so, because his eyes lit up with hope, full-hearted and warm, and she wanted to melt in his arms and be kissed until she forgot the name the nurses had given her.

Dmitry looked up at her, and stared, the softest smile lighting up his face. "Could I?"

"Yes!"

He tangled his fingers in her hair and kissed her. With Dmitry still kneeling, their height difference was switched up, which felt fitting for Anya, the vertigo of the last few minutes pooling in her stomach, making her feel like she was upside down; it was like letting out a breath they had been holding since that night in Vienna, or even earlier. After what felt like a second or maybe half an hour, they parted.

"What now?" he sighed and his breath tickled Anya's lips.

"We’re clever. We try to make it work," her soft smile gave him every reassurance he needed.

"We try to make It work," he repeated, their foreheads touching.

She kissed him a little longer, a little hungrier, with the ghost of a moan barely contained on the back of her throat.

"We still have to get ready for the ballet," he said, not making any effort to move from where he was.

Anya turned his wrist and frowned at the time on his watch, her eyes turning upward as she did the math in her head. "We still have a little more than an hour to spare," she smirked and bumped his knee with the tip of her shoe.

She didn't need to ask twice. Dmitry immediately bent to unbuckle the straps of her kitten heels, tickling her feet in the process; the room warmed up with the sound of giggling and feeble protests.

"You're doing that on purpose!" she complained, as he traced patterns on the back of her calves over her stockings, making her squirm.

He then raised his hands in mock surrender. "Look, if you don't want me to help, I won't," he shrugged, containing a smirk.

Anya took it as the challenge it was and lifted her skirt slowly, over her knees, then her thighs, until her garters were just peeking out, all while she looked at Dmitry, blushing furiously, his eyes wide and his palms landing involuntarily on her knees. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice a mix of cocky and coy.

"I- Uh- Fine, you win," he admitted and reached for her garters while she helped pulling his tie undone. It all became a mess of eager hands and clumsy fingers, tickling and pulling and roaming. They raced each other to unbutton his waistcoat, then his shirt, then his trousers. He rose and gently nudged her further into the bed, his hand on the small of her back. Anya gave silent thanks to the woman at the boutique that had suggested she went with the new and fashionable brassiere instead of a girdle or a corset; Dmitry struggled with it but not too much and it gave her just enough time to kiss the freckles on his shoulders.

"Out of intellectual curiosity," Dmitry's nose brushed her collarbone as he nibbled on her skin, "what happened in your dream?"

"There was a ball," she sighed, rolling her hips against him, "I had a lot of suitors lined up, and you were so jealous," she giggled when he stopped his attentions, an indignant expression on his face.

"That is doing literally nothing for me," he complained. "Now all I see is dozens of guys around you and- Yikes! Is that a situation you'd like? Or-?"

"No, silly! The point was that I told you there was nothing to worry about and then we sneaked into the library and you fucked me against a wall," she said simply and savored the look of dazzled arousal he returned.

"Shit… A girl like you… Where'd you get an idea like that?" he asked breathily, leaning over her again, pinning her wrists to the mattress.

"See, that's why we aren't the gardener's son and princess Anastasia. Because you can't be bossed around and I'm not as naive as you think. It's sweet you think of me like that- _Ah!_ " she moaned, "but I know things, Dima," the impact of her speech was somewhat diminished by her gasps as he thrust into her. "Back in Petersburg, my friends were married street sweepers and girls that worked nights at Theater Street. _God!_ "

"And there were men before me," he said, looking straight into her eyes. It was almost cocky, like he knew she would forget all about them so easily.

"I wasn't going to bring that up," Anya muttered. " _Right there_ ," she shut her eyes. "But, yeah."

"Good," he let go of her wrists and kissed her hard. "I like a woman that knows what she wants," he said huskily and remained still for a second, like he was waiting for instructions. Anya rolled them over on the mattress; Dmitry was now sitting underneath her, holding the small of her back, her legs framing his hips. She sunk around him and was rewarded with a growl. He buried his face between her breasts and held tight to her.

"Good?" she asked, biting back a lewd moan.

"Fuck, yes," he cursed.

She started rolling her hips against his, eager, zealous, feeling a delicious tension building. "I'm close," she mumbled after a while. If his ragged breath was anything to go by, he was too.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs on top of the covers. Dmitry kissed the top of her head and threw his arm around her; Anya hummed contentedly until she turned and caught sight of her stupid blue dress. She then grabbed Dmitry's wrist to check the time and saw they were very close to running late.

"Ugh! You owe me a cuddle!" she hollered, walking briskly to the bathroom to get cleaned up. Dmitry set up the pillows on the headboard to sit comfortably; however long Anya took to get ready, he would take a little less; he still had a few minutes to spare.

She emerged from the bathroom and walked barefoot around the room, collecting the things she needed. She threw a silk slip on and sat at the vanity. With a little effort, she managed to salvage her hairdo with many bobby pins and what looked like pomade. She caught him staring when she gazed at his reflection, a dumb smile on his face.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Just admiring the view."

Anya blushed and shook her head. "We're going to be late," she tried to sound stern but didn't quite manage it, now that she was busy struggling to close the back of her dress. "Will you zip me up?" she asked and Dmitry was taken aback by how right everything felt in that moment; he would love to live a thousand evenings like this, with her, in that oddly comforting atmosphere that had built around them. He walked towards her dreaming of such things, wanting to tell her every truth he had kept from her.

"You look lovely," he held her waist with one hand and closed the zipper slowly with the other.

"I haven't done my makeup yet," she interlocked her fingers with his over her stomach.

"I know," he replied, not missing a beat. "You look lovely," he repeated.

"Thank you," she turned to kiss him, soft and tender. "You are going to have to act surprised, when you see me at the ballet," she giggled, giddy with excitement.

"No problem," he kissed her again and stole one last glance in her direction as he left to get dressed. "See you in a minute."

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are love <3  
> Come yell at me at my tumblr @aralisj


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